A recent trip required a hotel room, which was booked via Expedia. All went well, etc. etc., but now an email awaits me:
Expedia Dear Frank, You should recently have received an email from us regarding your last trip booked on Expedia to $LOCATION. Your opinion is extremely valuable to us and we hope you'll take a few minutes to complete the survey: > Take Survey [...] If you wish to contact us, please do not reply to this message but instead visit our online Customer Support section. Replies to this message will not be read or responded to. We appreciate your time. Thank you!
One way to tell whether something really is extremely valuable or not is whether they're willing to share a piece of that extreme value with those who are generating it. In this case, you will not be surprised that no incentive is offered - no cash, no trinket, no future discount. That is, except for a computerized thanks from an account that does not receive email.
So I gave a review to TripAdvisor instead. Their computers are twice as cheerful.
Dateline: not ten minutes ago
Location: right here
The family insisted on a swim (rather than target-shooting) on a hot Sunday afternoon. What's up with that? Okay, we settled in, had a good time over an hour+, Stuart shot everyone up with water guns. What's up with that? As an afternoon storm approached, it was time to head in, and get changed back into civvies. People strolled toward bathrooms and bedrooms, leaving puddles and wet towels everywhere. Adults headed upstairs. Being the master of the house, my plan was to take the master bathroom. At first, all seemed well.
Ascending the steps, I heard a footstep, a chuckle, then another. Someone was ahead of me! It was the wife, heading for the same bathroom. Oh no! Aha, there she was, walking backward now, picking up some clean clothes. I gathered mine, quicker. The race was on, but she didn't know - but Stuart did and yelled upstairs, "Hurry, mom!"
In a flash, Juimiin was hustling back into the bathroom. She got there first! I was cold, and now alert, so I going to get in there whether or not she was in there. Oh no, the door was closing! The ghost of Harrison Ford (thankfully not deceased) spoke to me. Or maybe it was the ghost of Alec Guinness (sadly so). Use the shirt, Frank. Use the shirt. A split second later, my clean t-shirt flew across the room, right into the shrinking gap between the door and the frame. Blocked! Success!
A cackle from the bathroom, followed by many more. A tug-of-war ensued over the shirt. When she pushed, I pushed. When she pulled, I pulled. The door was still open a little, but we were at an impasse.
I sighed. Declining to use my superior muscles and authoritah, I admitted defeat and headed to another bathroom. As I walked away, I was dripping, cold, and had to listen to the woman's glee "this is so funny!".